<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Unnatural Killers by A_Subcon_Citizen (CATIM)</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22582132">Unnatural Killers</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CATIM/pseuds/A_Subcon_Citizen'>A_Subcon_Citizen (CATIM)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Bendy and the Ink Machine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Henry Stays-Alternate Universe, Henry is in his 50s, Killing lots of killing, More tags if I think of it, Past Relationship(s), Possession, Soul Bond, This is taking place in New York, Transformation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 12:20:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,400</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22582132</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CATIM/pseuds/A_Subcon_Citizen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things don't appear what they really are. The same can be said about humans. Henry Stein learns this lesson quickly after drinking mysterious ink and is thrown into a darker world that's been hiding in the heart of New York City. People are going missing. Strange monsters are appearing. And a group of hunters called The Thinners need Henry's help to stop them. </p><p>But more importantly, they need his soul.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Water?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Ok so, if you know Undertale, this story's main concept comes from the story of Chara and Asriel. </p><p>But instead of a monster's soul fusing with a human's soul, this a humans soul and body being borrowed and controlled by a soulless toon. More will be explained later on in the story. </p><p>Also, I would like to point out that this fic will be in first person and have three different points of view. I'll mark whose it is at the beginning of each chapter to avoid confusion.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>-Henry-</strong>
</p><p>I wake up to darkness, and the first thing I hear is water dripping out of a pipe. Cold and wet. I can't see a damn thing but can feel a puddle underneath me. It’s soaking my hair and face and most of my shirt. Slowly, I push myself up from the floor, my head rising from the puddle. Water wetting my hair rolls down my face and down my neck. I wipe it from my eyes. Then coughed when I taste something horrible on my tongue.</p><p>This isn't water. This is something else. Something bitter.</p><p>"What the-?"</p><p> </p><p>I sat up, and a sharp pain pierces through my skull like a bullet. I cringe. I cry out and double over into a ball on my knees, my head feeling like it's splitting open. The pain is so unbearable. Something I've never felt before. It makes me feel nausea and heavy like I'm going to pass out. Have I been hit by a car? Beaten with a crowbar?</p><p> </p><p>...oh</p><p>oh no...</p><p>It can't be...</p><p>I pat down my scalp and hold my breath, both in anticipation and fear. My hand brushes something big at the back of my head. A bump. I flinch.</p><p> </p><p>Shit.  </p><p> </p><p>Let this be a horrifying lesson to myself. Don't stay out late when there is a potential killer on the loose. Just recently, the New York Times published photos of all the persons who been missing for months. It's the big talk right now, and because a severed arm was found in the back alley of a club, it is believed to be the work of a serial killer. The Manhattan Killer everyone calls him or her. I should have taken the news as a cue to stay indoors, but I was drunk and wasn't thinking. The bar is only a few blocks away from the complex. I'd like to think I don't drink as much as I do, but I would be lying to myself if I say I didn't. I drink a lot. </p><p> </p><p>Five old fashions a night, a lot. </p><p> </p><p>More than a man my age should consume. Likely I was too wasted to hear my attacker approach me, and it was too late to react. </p><p> </p><p>But why me? I'm not an enemy, I'm not a threat. I'm just a middle-aged man living in Midtown Manhattan, minding his own business most days. I like to think of myself as a nice person. Someone you can ask for help when a job needs to be done. A friendly neighbor. A reliable co-worker. Who would want to hurt me?</p><p> </p><p>"Think," I tell myself, trying to stay calm. "Who was I with?" </p><p> </p><p>The last thing I can remember was being at Sally's Corner, late in the night, when the bar was still packed with people from the community. A nice place. Somewhere hard-working men like to go to unwind after a long day. And the usual crowd is a bunch of swell guys around my age. I remember drinking beers with Old Bill, a veteran, while he rambled on about his time in the war. Twin brothers Chase and Allen were playing poker in the game corner with two other men a bit older than them. They tried to get me to join them at one point, but I remember not feeling lucky or bold enough to take up their offer. Besides, I only go to Sally's to drink. I remember the neighborhood crazy, Liar Lenny, coming into the joint with another one of his supernatural rants. Aliens, monsters, ghosts, the old coot has sworn to me and everyone else in the joint he's seen them. Of course, no one ever believes him. It's all loony talk. He acts really loony too. Shouting and cackling at everyone who doubts him. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe loony enough to kidnap someone like me?</p><p>....</p><p>No. </p><p>That seems unlikely...</p><p> </p><p>And it's not just because Liar Lenny is old. Old than me. At least fifteen years ahead of me. It's also hard to imagine a thin 5'4 man actually hurting someone. I can't imagine any of them as the kind of criminal to want to kidnap me. I've seen a few shady guys in Sally's Counter before, gangs with mean reputations of being crooks. I've always stayed away from them, always looked the other way when they came sauntering in like they owned the joint, but that doesn't mean they haven't glared in my direction. Any of them could have attacked me. They always carry the weapons to do it in their coat pockets.</p><p> </p><p><em> What am I thinking? </em> I sigh and close my eyes to get my thoughts together. I'm jumping to conclusions, I need to focus on what's really important here: the present. Where was I?</p><p> </p><p>When the pounding in my skull finally stops, I start finding my bearings. My hands reach out to the darkness, blindly searching for support, and finding an odd-shaped chair. I scramble to place my hands on its seat and push myself up. Fortunately, the chair was sturdy enough to handle my weight, and I manage to stand upright without collapsing. On my feet, I take a step forward, letting go of the chair entirely, and look around. </p><p> </p><p>A chill creeps up my spine. There are no windows or lights in the room. No sound, other than leaking pipes from the ceiling. Yet, I could sense the presence of someone here, like I'm being watched by someone hiding in the darkness.</p><p> </p><p>"Hello?" I call out to them. "I'm awake. If you haven't figured that out yet," No response. I take another step forward while sucking in a deep breath. "Please, tell me what you want. Why did you kidnap me?" No response.</p><p> </p><p>I tell them, "You're going to have to come out of hiding eventually. Might as well do it now. I'm not in the best shape to run. I won't try to escape if you come out. I just want to talk, okay?"</p><p> </p><p>No response. I don't know what I expect to hear. An apology isn't going to change anything. And a kidnapper isn't going to show their face just because I asked. If they're not revealing themselves now, there's a reason they don't want to be seen.</p><p> </p><p>I take another step forward and make my voice more forceful. "Alright, don't come out. Since you're not going to show yourself, I'm going to start looking for an exit then." Again, silence followed. Something tells me I shouldn't have said that, but the words were already off my tongue, and I meant every bit of it. I wait with bated breath, ready my resolve to fight back if something were to jump out and attack me. At least, attempt to fight back.</p><p> </p><p>Then the lights flicker to life. It came on like a flash, blinding me momentarily. I shield my eyes to it, waiting for them to adjust. After fifteen seconds, I look around again and see several art desks and wooden chairs scattered about me. And finally, see what's really dripping from the pipes.</p><p> </p><p>Ink.</p><p> </p><p>Ink everywhere.</p><p> </p><p>Ink covering the walls, trickling from the ceiling, staining the floor, the desks, and chairs. It's filling the cracks and crevices of the dark wood walls like painted spider webs. I look down at myself, at my hands. Black ink stains, everywhere. It's on my clothes, on my arms and shoulders. I can feel it in my hair and start to dry on my skin. I shake my head in disbelief. Where the hell am I? Is this real? I feel my eyes wander around the room, scanning everything, trying to make sense of all of this ink. </p><p> </p><p>They lock on to a wooden pedestal in the center of it all. It's the only thing not tainted with the black substance. A small glass vial sits on its smoothly carved surface. Tied to the vial, I see a piece of paper.</p><p> </p><p>A note. From the captor? </p><p> </p><p>I go up to the pedestal, concerned about what the note says, and more concerned about the vial. The content inside it doesn't look quite right. It looks like ink, much like everything else in this room, but with an unnatural glossy sheen to it. If this is ink, it has to be different from the ink currently seeping down the walls. And the ink drenching my shirt. I pick up the vial and read the note attached to it.</p><p> </p><p><strong> 'Drink me' </strong> It says, in bold black letters. </p><p> </p><p> I stare at the note, then at the vial in my hand, and again back to the note.</p><p> </p><p>What?</p><p> </p><p>"What is this?" I say aloud, hoping to have some sort of answer from my mysterious captor. The vial tilts in my hand, and the ink inside glints in the light. It felt strangely cold in my palm. I squint my eyes, looking closer at the content. Either my sight is getting worse, or I could swear the ink is moving on its own. "What's...in this stuff?" </p><p> </p><p>No response. The lingering silence is starting to get on my nerves. This is a game, my captor is toying with me. It has to be. Well, I'm not going to participate. If I'm going to die at the hands of a psychopath, then I'm going out being stubborn. "I'm not drinking this," I say. "and you can't make me either," </p><p> </p><p>I put the vial back on the pedestal. Then turning around, I walk to one of the desks. The exit is visible but bolted tight with heavy chains and a padlock. Which means there's a key hidden somewhere in this room. If I learned anything from those late-night detective shows, it's that if the room design doesn't make sense, then there's bound to be secrets. "I'm going to get out of here," I shout as I'm fumbling through the desk drawers. </p><p> </p><p>I want them to hear me, maybe threatening to escape will drag them out of hiding? I'm not scared. Not one bit. Not of them, nor this room. If I'm anything, I'm annoyed. Life hasn't exactly been kind to me lately. Waking up in this dark inky room, in pain and weak, is just the cherry on top of a bad batch of nights. Surprisingly, this isn't the worst place I've woken up to.</p><p> </p><p>The first drawer is filled with random junk. I dig around the crumbled papers stuffed inside to find glass pieces of a broken inkwell and a couple of coins.</p><p> </p><p>But no key.</p><p> </p><p>I try the second drawer. Same luck. Just a paperclip, a pen, and more crumpled up papers. Shit. </p><p> </p><p>I take the paperclip anyway. If I can't find the key, then maybe I can use this to tinker with the lock. Criminals on those crime shows can do it, and it only takes them a few seconds to get in and out with the prize jewel in hand. It can't be too hard to figure out.</p><p> </p><p>I'm still looking inside the drawers digging around the junk when a sound behind me kick starts my heart. My head swiftly turns back to the pedestal, and my eyes go wide. The vial is missing. </p><p> </p><p>I stare at the pedestal. Blankly. Shocked. How's that possible? There's so much ink in the room, I would have heard someone trudging around in it. There's no way I couldn't have heard them take the vial. Vials don't just disappear like that. The only plausibility I can come up with is that it grew legs and walked away...</p><p>Which can't happen. </p><p>Right? </p><p> </p><p>Another noise, coming from the right. It rattles every nerve in my body.</p><p> </p><p>I turn back to the desk I had just searched through, as the hair on my neck stands on ends. As an uncomfortable feeling washes over me. There's the vial, sitting center of the desk, its ink gleaming like a treasure. The note is still attached and displaying its message in my direction.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> Drink me </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>There's another message for me, scribbled in ink, on the art desk. My heart is pounding in my chest now. </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> The Ink is the Key </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>"I already said I'm not..." I start to say, but my words were too quiet to finished, and the vial was already back in my hand. The strange thing is, I don't remember grabbing it. I put two and two together. </p><p> </p><p>"Are you saying if I drink this...you'll let me go?" No response. I look at the note again, staring at it as it taunts me.</p><p> </p><p>Just do what the note says.</p><p>What are you waiting for?</p><p>Henry.</p><p>
  <strong> Drink me.  </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>The words tied to the vial are haunting and demanding all at once. It gives me the creeps. I wonder if Alice in <em>Lewis Caroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland </em>felt this uncomfortable when she saw the same note. </p><p> </p><p>Aside from being let go, what else would happen to me if I drink it? The ink can't be good for my body, this stuff is like poison if I consume enough of it. So won't I get sick? Possibly...die? Is that their plan?</p><p> </p><p>Then what would happen if I continue to refuse? Will I be stuck here? That's a question I don't think I want the answer to, but at the same time has me curious.  </p><p> </p><p>I shout, "And if I still refuse?" The voice keeps up the silence. I don't feel as threatened by it anymore. So I think up a different question to ask it. "At least tell me why? Why did you take me? And why do you want me to drink this stuff?" Again, no response. </p><p> </p><p>I sigh, tiredly. "That's not fair. I deserve some sort of explanation for all of this. Don't you think?" Nothing. And it's going to stay nothing. The Manhattan Killer, or whoever the damn dragged me here, made it very clear they didn't want to show themself. It's pointless talking. Taking the silence as my invitation to leave, I put the vial back on the desk. For good this time. </p><p> </p><p>"Fine," I say. "I'll be on my way. Don't worry about me telling anyone about this," Not like anyone will believe me. I can hardly believe what I'm seeing myself. </p><p> </p><p>"I'll keep quiet," </p><p> </p><p>I close in on the locked door with the paperclip in hand and new determination to get out of here, hopefully with my sanity still intact. Before I could reach the door, the lock starts moving on its own, jarring around on the chains as if something invisible was doing the work for me. I freeze and watch in awe as the padlock unlocks itself. The chains drop to the floor. The door even creaks open on its own volition like I've been welcomed to leave. I hesitate to move. </p><p> </p><p><em> 'A trap?'  </em>I think, looking out through the door, down a dim corridor, and can see daylight filtering through two windows. </p><p> </p><p>Still skeptical, I put one foot halfway out the door, just in case a trick was waiting to spring on me. Nothing happens.</p><p> </p><p>I take in a deep breath.</p><p> </p><p>I wait in the eerie silence for a few more seconds. Then I leave the room. If I could, I would book it. Run like the wind without looking back. Whether it's the bump on my head or a hangover, one or both keeps me from walking no faster than a snail's pace. But I'm moving, and that's the important thing. And I'm alive, and hopefully, free. Also important. </p><p> </p><p>As I'm half staggering and half walking, down what seems to be an endless maze of halls, I keep thinking something's going to grab me any second. That this is part of my captor's sick game to make me think I was let go, only to be attacked and killed. I kept wanting to look behind me and told myself several times don't do it. It's a bad idea. Just keep moving, Henry. </p><p> </p><p>I turn another corner, and to my relief, see those big, bright, beautiful red letters over the exit. Freedom.</p><p> </p><p>I push the door open full force and step out into the morning sunlight, feeling comfort and freedom in its warmth. I don't stop, however. I keep walking through the asphalt parking lot with purpose in every step, and soon onto the sidewalk. I keep going until I'm completely off the property. Only then did I take a look back, and my eyes bulge. </p><p> </p><p>"What? But how-" I look up and up. Looking past the first, second, and third stories, at the very tip-top of the brick building, where a golden three reels logo sits. </p><p> </p><p>What I just walked out of wasn't someone's creepy torture house. Or some forgotten building with no extraordinary history. </p><p> </p><p>It was a place, at one point, that held a lot of magic. A once sanctuary for new and inspiring talents to go and thrive for the bigger and better. Somewhere I never imagined in my life would go back to. </p><p> </p><p>Joey Drew Studios.</p><p> </p><p> My former employment. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Two showers and a change of clothes later,</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>**Future note: Read chapter titles first.**</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>and I still find a speck of ink on my left thumb. I frown at it, annoyed. And after all that scrubbing...I should have expected it. </p><p> </p><p>When I was the lead artist at Joey Drew Studios those many many years ago, the ink was almost always impossible to get out of clothes. No matter how much bleach I'd poured into the wash, it was never enough. Ink stains are like a crazy ex that just won't leave you alone. They're there when you don't know it, latch onto you like a magnet. You hate seeing them but can't ignore them either, and they always end up ruining your shirt. And let me tell you, quality long sleeve shirts are not cheap to buy.  </p><p> </p><p>I hate looking at the speck. So I close my eyes when I go to take a big sip of my coffee, let the caffeine aroma wake me up. When I open them again, Norman Polk is standing at my booth. </p><p> </p><p>"What the hell happened to you?" he asks. He got here faster than I expected. I called him up as soon as I was cleaned up. The conversation was brief, and the diner I picked for us to meet was somewhere close to both our places. </p><p> </p><p>Standing 6'2 and solid-built with a raspy southern accent, Norman has been a respectful friend of mine since our youthful years working at the studio. He also just got off work from the looks of it. He's wearing the beige suit and plaid tie he hates so much but forced to wear under his job's regulation. A cameraman has to look his best while hauling around equipment, I suppose. A bit different from the projectionist life. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn't know what this meet up is about, except that it's urgent. </p><p> </p><p>"Sit down. I'll try to explain." </p><p> </p><p>Norman slides into the booth across from me and immediately takes a cigarette from his pants pocket to stick in his mouth. "You look like you just witnessed someone's death," </p><p> </p><p>"Close," </p><p> </p><p>"Rough night at Sally's?" </p><p> </p><p>I chuckle. "Not at Sally's." </p><p> </p><p>Norman raises his brow as he goes to light his cigarette. I lift my coffee mug but paused to say, "I was abducted last night." </p><p> </p><p>He stops and lowers his lighter, looking bewildered at me.  </p><p> </p><p>I say, "I was drunk, and it was dark, so I don't remember where it happened, and I didn't see who it was. When I woke up, I was locked in a room with a severe bump on my head. Whoever attacked me, knocked me out with something pretty hard. Fortunately, I wasn't bleeding."</p><p> </p><p>After looking over my face, presumably checking to see if I'm being truthful, Norman leans back in his seat. "You ain't kiddin. Christ, Henry, how did you escape?" </p><p> </p><p>"They let me go," </p><p> </p><p>"Just like that?"</p><p> </p><p>I nod. Of course, I'm not telling him the whole truth.</p><p> </p><p>Norman asks "Did they threaten you?"</p><p> </p><p>"That's the weird part; they never talked, I never saw them or their face. I was trapped in a room by myself."</p><p> </p><p>"Damn. Henry, you need to go to the police." </p><p> </p><p>I shake my head. I haven't decided if going to the police station would be wise. The whole event still feels like a strange dream that it's hard to imagine the police will listen to me without them thinking I was on a drunken bender. Also, call it a gut feeling, but I don't think my captor would like it if they knew I told the police. They could come after me again. "No. Not yet. Norman, I need you to keep this secret."  </p><p> </p><p>"Henry-" </p><p> </p><p>I hold my hand up to stop him. "Just for now. To be safe." </p><p> </p><p>Norman scowls at that. "You're damn lucky to be alive right now. It could have been the Manhattan Killer." </p><p> </p><p>"I thought the same thing at first. But I don't think it was."</p><p> </p><p>"How would you know? You just said you didn't see his face," Norman says. </p><p> </p><p>"It's the building I woke up in," After looking over my shoulder, I lean in close to whisper. "Joey Drew Studios." </p><p> </p><p>He goes quiet for a moment, his brows furrowing slowly. A reaction I honestly didn't expect from him and wondered if he's rethinking my story to be a lie. "Impossible. That place has been locked up tight since Mister Drew dragged it to the ground." </p><p> </p><p>"Not tight enough," I say.</p><p> </p><p>"But's that's all the way in Brooklyn! Are you sure it was that exact building?" </p><p> </p><p>I put my mug down and look Norman dead in the eye. "I saw the logo in the parking lot. I drew that logo, Norman. Then seen it over a hundred times for the past 30 years. It was Joey Drew Studios." </p><p> </p><p>He goes quiet again, and so do I, long enough for the table to get uncomfortable. Calmly I drink until the last drop of coffee enters my throat, and Norman goes back to what he wanted to do and lights up his cigarette. </p><p> </p><p>"So what you thinkin'?" He says, his voice serious. "It's one of our former coworkers?" </p><p> </p><p>My mouth opens to speak, only to close again a moment later as our waitress approaches the table. Long, braided blond hair and pretty green eyes, she smiles and asks, "Refill, sir?" in the sweetest tone, holding up a steaming pot of fresh coffee. </p><p> </p><p>I hold my mug out, and she fills it up. "Thank you," </p><p> </p><p>The waitress nods delightedly, then turns to Norman. "Did you want anything, sir?"</p><p> </p><p> "I'm fine, sweetheart."</p><p> </p><p>She winks at him like she knew him, walks away with a wide gracious smile, and a swing to her hips. Norman turns his head and watches her thoughtfully as she returns to the kitchen.</p><p> </p><p>"She's out of your league, old man." </p><p> </p><p>He shakes his head without looking away. "That ain't it." </p><p> </p><p>"You know her or something?" I ask. </p><p> </p><p>Norman squints his eyes. "I don't know..." Again he shakes his head as if trying to focus. Turns to me. "Forget it. Back to what I was sayin', do you think one of our coworkers attacked you?" </p><p> </p><p>"I thought about that. It's possible, but..." I let the sentence drift away, seeing if he'd pick it up what I'm thinking. He does. </p><p> </p><p>"But you don't know who or why someone would."  </p><p> </p><p>"Yes."  </p><p> </p><p>Dabbing his cigarette, Norman looks out the window for a moment to contemplate. Ten seconds later, he says again, "I still think you should go to the police, Henry." </p><p> </p><p> I try to think of a good excuse to tell him why I didn't want to do that just yet but didn't come up with anything. It just doesn't feel like a good idea. Hell. I don't know if telling Norman about all of this was a good idea either, which is why I haven't told him about the strange vial. Or about the appalling amount of ink that was in the room I was locked in. He's a good friend, but even he can still call me a drunk story-teller. </p><p> </p><p>"I will, just not right now. Not until I know for sure I'm safe from this person."</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't say anything. </p><p> </p><p>"Trust me, Norman." </p><p> </p><p>"If you say so." The troubled look on his face and the lack of volume in his usual loud voice told me, no, he doesn't like this idea but doesn't want to say it out loud. </p><p> </p><p>We both go quiet. Again. </p><p> </p><p>Great. My only good friend and I can't get him to trust me.</p><p> </p><p>This was getting awkward. And personally, I don't really want to talk about what happened anymore. Best to keep this to myself to figure out. Besides, it's been some time since Norman and I had a sit-down to talk like old friends. We go to the same bar, Sally's Corner, but because of our conflicting work schedules, we're going on different nights. I never get to chat with him. So since we're both here, why not think up another subject to talk about. Something light-hearted.</p><p>Wonder how he and his new girl are doing?</p><p> </p><p>"On a different note, how's Miranda? You two still planning a vacation to Miami?"</p><p> </p><p>Norman takes in a deep drag of his cigarette. "She's dead." </p><p> </p><p>I almost spit out a mouthful of coffee. A dribble manages to roll down my chin. </p><p> </p><p>Well, crap. </p><p> </p><p>So much for a light-hearted conversation. And what a way to slap that news in my face, pal.</p><p> </p><p>I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, coughing and clearly embarrassed. "I'm so sorry, Norman. I didn't know. I shouldn't have-" </p><p>I stop. He's looking at me with the most deadpan expression I've ever seen. And I'm thinking I made a big mistake. Then the son of a bitch smirks. "Nah, I'm just kiddin'. The broad and I split a few weeks ago."</p><p> </p><p>Every muscle in my body relaxes at once. "...Oh," </p><p> </p><p>Norman laughs, smoke comes out of his mouth like a freaking chimney. "Yeah, caught her in bed with some slick. She's down in L.A. with him right now, far away from me. I say good riddance to both of them." </p><p> </p><p>Damn it, Norman. To this day, his morbid jokes still get me.</p><p> </p><p>"Why am I not surprised that you still have your dark sense of humor." I try to frown, but I'm too exhausted to be mad, so I don't know if I'm doing it right. Whatever expression I'm making on my face, it's sufficient enough to make him cut his laughter short. </p><p> </p><p>"Sorry, I shouldn't joke about death. I know it's been hard for you since Linda...you know." </p><p> </p><p> My wife's face flashes through my mind. "I know. Let's not talk about that, please." </p><p> </p><p>Norman crushes his cigarette into the ashtray. "No problem, pal. I got to get going anyway. And you look like you could use some sleep." </p><p> </p><p>"And you'd be right." </p><p> </p><p>He chuckles. "Do me a big favor, Henry, and don't go gettin' abducted again. Or worse, killed. Your guy may not be the Manhattan Killer, but he's still out there, and I'd hate to see your face in the papers." </p><p> </p><p>"Alright. Next time I'll be sure to use my master hand to hand combat skills that I definitely know." </p><p> </p><p> Norman pats me on the shoulder. "Good. Stay safe." Just as quickly as he was getting here, he was up out of his seat and heading for the front door in long strides. </p><p> </p><p>I salute him with the mug, and because it's second nature to say it back, I say, "You too." </p><p> </p><p>--------</p><p> </p><p>It's 5:36 pm by the time I make it back to my apartment. There's still a lot of daylight to burn. Too bad I'm physically exhausted from traveling all day that I don't want to do anything else except take a nap. The trip back to Manhattan was a killer on the feet. The many stares didn't help make it fun either, but I don't blame people. I'd stare too if I saw a man covered head to toe in dry ink limping down the sidewalk. I'd think the same things those people were probably thinking too. <em> 'Stay away from that guy, honey, he's clearly crazy.' </em></p><p> </p><p>Sometimes I feel like I am crazy. Now, I'm not going around telling people that aliens exist, and they're going to suck your brains out. I don't level myself as that kind of crazy. But sometimes I feel like I can see things that other people can't see. Moving shadows. Hidden messages on walls. Stuff like that. By the end of the night, I've always made the excuse that I'm just drunk, and that's the reason why I can see these things. After today...well...I'm starting to rethink that stuff might not have all be in my head.</p><p> </p><p>When I get to my door, I start digging for my keys, which thankfully my captor didn't take from me. They didn't take anything off of me, actually. I still have my wallet with $1.30 left. Which is odd but fortunate. Maybe they felt some pity for me?</p><p> </p><p>I lock the front door when I'm in my apartment and go straight to the kitchen. A single goldfish is watching me from his oval fishbowl on the counter.</p><p> </p><p>"Hey, Pat, I told you I'd be back. Did you miss me?" the fish stares at me with his big eyes, his little mouth opens and closes. I imagine he's saying yes. </p><p> </p><p>"Don't worry, little guy. I promise I won't disappear like that ever again." I pour myself a glass of water from a jug I had cooling in the refrigerator. Somehow, it feels colder running down my throat then it does in the glass. I close the fridge and shut off the lights behind me.  </p><p> </p><p>"See you in the morning." </p><p> </p><p>The little fish swims in a circle. </p><p> </p><p>I don't want to do anything else besides getting some sleep. Not even the thought of Sally's Corner sounds good to me right now. </p><p> </p><p>Nah, its best I stay away from that place. Just for a couple of days when I know for sure, my captor wants nothing to do with me. People will notice my absence, especially the owner Mr. Taylor. I know for a fact, my money alone pays for his entire bourbon stock. He'll definitely question where I'm at if I'm not there ordering three Monday specials. Aw well, better to be safe. It's like what Norman said, my former captor might not be the Manhattan Killer, but there's still one out there.</p><p> </p><p>It's 5:57 pm when I finally crawl into bed, covers pulled all the way up to my neck. All my windows are closed, so most of the outside noise is blocked, and the curtains pulled. At this point, I'm so tired that when my head hits the pillow, I immediately fall asleep.</p><p> </p><p>My dreams are more like nightmares. I'm back in Joey Drew Studios, in the same room I was locked in, but instead of desks and chairs, I'm surrounded by living and breathing ink. It's so dim that I see only partially the many ink puddles moving down the walls, crossing the floor, with long jello arms. They had droopy, rather sad-looking skulls that swing as they crawl towards me. Thick, broad shoulders connected to thin torsos. They look horrifyingly a bit human, just sad writhing abominations with no legs at all. One of them takes hold of my ankle, and I retaliate by stomping its arm to piece. The monster shrieks and grabs my leg with its other hand. Another one grabs my other leg before I can react. A third latches onto my arm. Then my other arm. My back. My shoulders. They swarm me all at once. A pipe bursts and rains more ink into the room while I'm fighting to get them off. I'm clawing and kicking at everything. My attacks are tearing through their bodies, but it's like I'm attacking mud. They just regenerate into an even more fucked up form of themself, all while holding onto me is a viselike grip. There's no winning this fight, I realize this quickly. The ink is up to my torso and they're all over me, trying to drag me down under it. I can't do anything except watch myself slowly die. </p><p> </p><p>With my final breath, I look up at the single light bulb hanging over my head, my last glance at freedom. I reach for it, gasping for air as I do. Then all at once, the monsters pull me under into the deep dark oblivion. </p><p> </p><p>When I wake up, I wake up sweating and my heart pounding like a drum in my chest. I flick the lights on and check the time.</p><p> </p><p>10:44pm.</p><p> </p><p>Nine more hours until work. </p><p> </p><p>I get out of bed, go to the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face. </p><p> </p><p>There's a commotion outside involving a lot of yelling and a few swear words thrown in here and there. It sounds like a really pissed off woman. I look out the small bathroom window to see if I'm correct, and on the street across from the building, a woman in a maroon dress is storming away from a dumbfounded man in a check suit. He's rubbing his cheek like he just been slapped. Rejection. Ouch. Better luck next time, buddy. Maybe try giving her flowers.</p><p> </p><p>I squint my eyes, looking closer at the man's face. Maybe it's just the lighting, but there's something off about his complexion. He looks pale. Sickly pale. And when he coughs, it sounds like a death rattle. That's concerning. Poor guy need's to worry about his own health instead of chasing after dames. </p><p> </p><p>I shut off the bathroom lights and go back to my room, but rethink about going back to bed. I've heard traumatic experiences can make you repeat nightmares, and if that's the truth, then I don't think I want to go through that awful dream again tonight.</p><p> </p><p>Since I'm not going back to sleep, I leave my room to go to the kitchen. </p><p> </p><p>Pat greets me again when I turn the lights on. I'm imagining he's asking me why I'm awake. </p><p> </p><p>"Can't sleep. I figure I could get some work done before going into the office," I grab a frying pan from the dish rack and put it on the stove. "I told you about our big project, didn't I? If I can get a good chunk of it done tonight, maybe Mr. Winslow will finally consider a raise," I open the fridge, grab a few eggs. "Wouldn't that be nice?" I say, turning around to face my fish.</p><p>Then I stop. And I stare.</p><p>The eggs fall from my hands, cracking open on the tile floor.</p><p>Sitting on the counter right next to Pat's fishbowl is a little bottle of ink. Attached to it is a familiar note: <strong>Drink me.</strong></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I can see myself talking to a goldfish like this if I owned one.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Have you ever seen a bottle fly?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The people out in the streets got to see one. I don't know whether it was anger, fear, or a mixture of both that drove me to throw the bottle out the window. What I do know is, I didn't hold back when I did it. Every muscle used to pitch the damn thing was on full throttle, and it soared across the night sky. </p><p>With the cursed thing gone, there still leaves the horrifying question of how in the holy hell it got into my apartment. Immediately, my brain goes into rewind, trying to remember exactly how I left the studio. It comes up with excuses. </p><p>Maybe I did take it and forgot. </p><p>
  <em> No, that can't be right.  </em>
</p><p>Maybe the bottle somehow fell into my pocket, and I didn't know.</p><p>
  <em> Impossible. Then how did it wind up on the counter? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Over and over, I went through the memory and even tried to convince myself I took it, but my brain knows for a fact I didn't. There's no way. It was still on the desk when I escaped.</p><p> </p><p>Which means...</p><p> </p><p>I back away from the window. My eyes start scanning everything around me, looking for anything odd that proves my growing suspicion. A thought occurs, and I look over my shoulder at my front door. I realize with an explosion of horror that my apartment had been broken into. The intruder left the door open a crack, and hallway light was seeping through the frame. I promptly go to shut it and lock it up, my hands are shaking all the while. </p><p> </p><p> I knew it, I knew this wasn't over. No criminal, kidnapper or killer will just let someone go without a real motive. Whoever this person is must have followed me home, broken into my place while I was asleep, and left the bottle. What's weird is they didn't take the chance to rob me. From what I can see, all of my stuff was still in its right place, even my valuable paintings I had hanging up. Aside from the broken eggs on the floor, there was no mess to be found. </p><p> </p><p>I don't understand, and that scares me. Was their only purpose for doing this was to give me that damn bottle?</p><p> </p><p>I shudder as another thought occurs, and the feeling of being watched creeps back in. The intruder is still in my apartment. I ran to my bedroom, got on my hands and knees and dug under my bed for a wooden baseball bat that I had kept for this reason. With it tight in my grasp, I then spent the next few minutes going through every room in my apartment. I checked everywhere a grown person could hide. I crouched under tables, poked around in closets, and peeked behind curtains and doors. </p><p> </p><p>All of the rooms were, thankfully, empty, but this paranoia feeling wasn't going away. I can't describe it other than it being a sixth sense humans activate when they know they are not safe. Something is still not right. There's one place I haven't check, and that's outside. Imagining the intruder standing outside the building like a horror movie killer, I go to look out my window. </p><p> </p><p>Good news, no one in a ski mask is staring up at me, but something did catch my attention that I had to do a double-take. It's a couple, a man and a woman, both dressed up in way too fancy outfits to be out walking in the streets. Probably just left a high-class party or something exclusive. I can tell the man is wasted. His bent posture and the way his feet slightly sways with each step is unmistakable. The gentleman is still there, but the brain is somewhere else.  </p><p> </p><p>Been there, done that. </p><p> </p><p>The woman doesn't seem to mind him at all. She's smiling with her arm hooked around his, and even laughs when he nearly trips over himself. Even though her companion is the one that's very clearly drunk, it's her that's not normal in this little picture. It's her complexion; it's as pale as a sheet. And when she turns at just the right angle under the lamp posts, I notice her eyes are bright and sunken.</p><p> </p><p>Strange, that's two people now. I hope a virus isn't going around. Manhattan already has a killer on the loose, the last thing we need is people getting seriously sick. </p><p> </p><p>I watch them with interest as they walk a few feet heading south. For some reason, the woman suddenly decides they should go into a back alley between a neighboring apartment building and a small shop behind them. She nudges the man to follow her. He doesn't protest in the slightest. His mind is far long gone for logical thinking. She pulls and draws him away from the lamp posts, their only light source around, with her sweet talk and smiles. He allows her and they disappear into the alley together.</p><p> </p><p>I turn away from the windows, not really sure what to do or think at the moment. My head is spinning with questions that are making me physically ill to my stomach. I just don't understand. Why would someone be out to get me? I've never done anything wrong to anybody in my life. At least I don't think...</p><p> </p><p>I think of my former employees at Joey Drew Studios, with the grave question of whether one of them is doing this. The only person I can sincerely say was insane enough to do something like this, was my old work partner, Joey Drew himself. But he's dead. He's been dead for quite some time. Unless he's a zombie or a vengeful spirit, it can't possibly be him.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'If your ghost is here, Joey, then you need to fuck off.' </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Shaking my weary head, I go back to the kitchen and clean up the splatter of eggs off the tile floors and put the pan back on the dish rack. Then I spent the next half hour at my dining table, baseball bat sitting across my lap, and just thinking. </p><p> </p><p>The good news is, whoever this person is, they're not in my apartment anymore. The bad news is, I still don't know their identity. A gut feeling tells me this isn't over. They will return with a new method to torment me if for any purpose. If that's the truth, then I'll be ready for them next time. </p><p> </p><p>----</p><p>
  <strong>-Bendy-</strong>
</p><p>"Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn."</p><p>I reach into the pile of garbage, grab the ink bottle stuffed in between two bloated bags, and hold it up to the light for inspection. Relief fills my chest as I see no cracks. Thank the stars the bottle landed on something cushioned. I would have hated having to tell the others it broke. After the risk it took to get the ink. </p><p> </p><p>With a little more caution, I tuck the ink bottle into my vest. Then I look up at Henry's apartment, undoubtedly seeing his perturbed face through the window. I get to my feet, cup my hands to my mouth to shout my frustrations at him. "You are being really stubborn, Henry!" Henry doesn't react or look my way. He shouldn't. I know full well the artist can't see or hear me. Yet. And that frustrates me more.</p><p> </p><p>Ugh! Who am I kidding? I can't be angry with him when it's our fault that he's acting like this. I knew locking him in the studio was a bad idea, but <em>she </em>kept insisting that her plan was better than forcing the ink down his throat. Seriously, how is kidnapping him any better? Henry didn't deserve that, he doesn't deserve any of this torment.</p><p>Well, surprise, surprise, <em> leader.  </em>Your idea didn't work, and things are getting worse.</p><p>So now I'm thinking of doing my plan. </p><p> </p><p>It'll be quick and easy. Henry might hate me for a while, but I don't have much of a choice here, the others are counting on me to make this work. Henry will just have to get over it and...hopefully he'll cooperate with us. We'll have to switch to plan B if he doesn't. I don't like plan B.</p><p> </p><p>Henry steps away from the window, and somewhere I start hearing a gurgling cry of a human. It's a sound of pain, a wretched noise that stretches on and on without pause. Then it goes quiet. My heart sinks. I know what that sound means, and know what vile creature caused it. It's both a useful tool and curse of mine to be able to sense the dark aura that's coming to me. And smell the blood.</p><p> </p><p>I turn to the alleyway behind me, just in time to see a woman, no...a monster built together from corrupted ink, disguised as a human woman come around the corner. She pauses when she sees me, tilting her head slightly. The glow of her hollow, golden eyes is all I see in the dark, but I can feel the aura stronger than before. </p><p> </p><p>"Oh, I could sense you. I thought you were another," The monster's voice is that of its host. Stolen and used to trick other humans just like the poor man snagged in her sharp claws. "But you don't look like one of us, you are different. Smaller and rounder. Your head is funny shaped. Humans don't have those little points." </p><p> </p><p>I reach up to touch my horns, makings a face at that unnecessary, rude statement. "You got a problem with how I look?" </p><p> </p><p>"You look weak," She says, after spitting what had to be a mix of blood and ink in my direction. "I can see it in your eyes, little one. It lacks the glow and hunger the rest of us desire. It makes you very different from us,"</p><p> </p><p>"I could say a few things about you're appearance, you inky freak."</p><p> </p><p>The monster grins then throw her head back in laughter. She drops the very dead man from her claws and casually walks towards me with one arm outstretched. I find myself equalling her steps and walking backward to keep the gap between us far, fearing she might have gained an interest in killing me in the last ten seconds. She stops when I'm out of the alley and directly under street lights. She stands at the edge of the shadows. Her arm lowers. </p><p> </p><p>Smart monster. </p><p>She knows leaving the darkness is a risk. Unaffected humans can't see me, but they could definitely see her and her deranged state if she were to step into the light. Can't go scaring the prey away.</p><p> </p><p>I can kind of see her face now. It bothers me, though I shouldn't let it. The inkfected have to be eliminated no matter who they are, it's the only way to save everyone else. The human that used to be there was so young, though. Somewhere in her twenties, wealthy by the look of her ballgown and gold jewelry. She'd be pretty if she didn't have blood smeared on her face and on the front of her dress. </p><p> </p><p> "What's wrong? Scared of a little light?" I taunt.</p><p> </p><p> "Mock all you want, little one. You won't survive long out here." </p><p> </p><p>"Sweetheart, I've been around long before you, and the other freaks showed up."</p><p> </p><p>"Is that so," Her eyes narrow as she examines my face. I can see the suspicion rising in her head. She's piecing the puzzle together. I wait for her to finish. "You're with the hunters, aren't you? That's why you're different." And there it is.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'A very smart monster indeed.' </em>
</p><p> </p><p>I don't say anything to confirm or denied this claim, just smirk, to spite her and make her face turn crimson red with anger. She growls. "You are with them! I'll rip your head off and send it to your friends."  </p><p> </p><p>"Psh! I'd like to see you try!"</p><p> </p><p>The monster lunges at me. My fight or flight instincts kick in. I manage to dodge a hand reaching for me, but she swings again soon after with another fierce swipe. I duck under it and run out of there, going opposite of Henry's place in case she gives chase. He needs to be kept safe. Instead of chasing me, the monster lets out a shrill laugh. I hear its echos behind me. She ends it by shouting that I'm a coward but sticks to hiding in the safety of shadows like most of the inkfected. Hypocrite. </p><p> </p><p>It would have been better if she did chase after me. I'd be saving others by wasting her time. It doesn't really matter what happens to me; there isn't a thing I can do to stop these creatures. Not yet, at least. I hate to admit it, but when she called me weak, she was kind of right. A toon by himself is no match against these abominations. Without the others, all I can do is run. Run while humans are getting slaughtered and converted. </p><p> </p><p>The cries for help are the hardest part of all this. They're horrible, and I never get used to the fact knowing I can't do anything to save both the victim nor the host. It's game over for them. Their fate is sealed. It stinks, but it's a grim reminder as to why I have to push Henry to drink this ink. </p><p>Sorry, Henry, but I need you. We need you.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. "Mr. Stein, are you feeling okay?"</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It's a strange feeling to be writing about ink that acts similar to a virus spreading through contact in this day and age. </p><p>Be careful everyone. Wash your hands, and stay safe.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Okay is not the word I would say I'm feeling at the moment. I want to tell Miss Francis, the sweet secretary at the front desk, while she's staring and knitting her worry brows at me that everything is fine in my life. I would like to assure her I didn't stay up all night because someone broke into my apartment. Slept perfectly fine without feeling paranoid. And I'm ready to tell our boss I have the illustration finished for the next <em>Trendy Times </em>magazine. But of course, I'd be lying about all of that. </p><p> </p><p>I didn't get any sleep last night. I also didn't work on my illustration like I wanted to, and I don't have any energy left in me to care. Miss Francis would know that I'm fibbing if I tried to tell her any of those lies. She's good at reading people.</p><p> </p><p>Though young, Miss Francis is regarded as the office 'mother' by many employees thanks to her empathetic nature. And because there is no hiding honesty from her.</p><p>When she first started working here, her beautiful blond curls and almond shaped-eyes won the hearts of many office employees that dare to trifle with her. Unfortunately for them, they weren't counting on her having a sharp tongue and even sharper eyes under her beauty. She can read anybody like a book and call them out on their bullshit. </p><p> </p><p>"I'll be fine," I tell her, my voice heavy with weariness. </p><p> </p><p>She obviously doesn't buy it, I can see it on her face. Her eyes narrow to slits. "You're late clocking in,"</p><p> </p><p>"I know..."</p><p> </p><p>"If there is something wrong, Mr. Stein-" </p><p> </p><p>I shake my head and hold up a hand to stop her. "Thank you, Miss Francis, for your concern. I promise you, I'll be fine."</p><p> </p><p>She presses her lips into a thin line. "Mr. Winslow has been looking for you."</p><p> </p><p>The grip on my messager bag tightens. It's never a good thing when Mr. Winslow wants to see me. I lean in a bit to Miss Francis. "Do me a favor, and don't tell him I'm here yet. I need a moment to wake up before I talk to him." </p><p> </p><p>Miss Francis flashes a tender white smile. She whispers, "I won't say a thing. However, I can't stop him when he's comes looking for you."</p><p> </p><p>"I won't be long," I thank her then take off down the left hall leading to my office. Before going in, I stop by the restroom first for some much-needed water splashed on my face. When I look up from the sink, I see an exhausted old-man. There are dark circles under his eyes. Deep stress lines on his brow. His hair is unkempt, and his shirt collar is upturned in an awkward fashion. No wonder Miss Francis was staring at me like I'm a stray dog. I'm only 54 years old, and who I see in the mirror is someone that looks ten years older than that and ready to retire. Not yet. I still have a few more working years on me and a lot of bills to pay. Though the thought is tempting. </p><p> </p><p>Years of stress have caused a lot of gray hair to grow on my head. And I'm sure the extreme alcohol consumption has its contributions to my poor skin health and energy.</p><p> </p><p>The point is, I look awful, but this is nothing new to me. I noticed my health declining years ago, somewhere at the beginning of my employment for <em> Trendy Times</em>.</p><p> </p><p>It's not the company's fault. They give good hours, and the pay is even better. Things in my life just got rough since Joey Drew Studios went out of business. And sometimes I do miss drawing cartoons. They are a lot more fun than drawing cover illustrations for magazines.</p><p> </p><p>I remember being very animated when I was working at the studio. Energetic. Always thrilled to sketch out the next episode featuring my cartoon creations. Of course, I was much younger back then and wasn't so afraid to stick up for myself when things got rough. </p><p>My partner, Joey, was a talker. </p><p>Not a worker. </p><p>He also had money, so he was the main person who called the shots. At the same time, Joey knew he needed my talent to keep the shows going at a timely pace. He built the studio, but I created the characters and the animations. We had to work together to make the dream work. Sadly, Joey had to be reminded of that. </p><p> </p><p>I had threatened to quit a few times to get him to listen. Sometimes it was because he overworked me. Other times, it was because of his arrogance. Somehow, he always convinced me to stay, and I remember continuously thinking after we worked everything out, that he was going to change his ways. </p><p>I was a fool for thinking that. Joey never changed. He was never planning to. He stayed his same old selfish ways, right to the very end of his life. </p><p> </p><p>I smooth my hair out in the mirror with a little water. Fix my collar and roll up my sleeves to the elbows to make myself look nicer. Better, but not looking any younger. </p><p> </p><p>I grab my bag and leave the bathroom freshened up, only to immediately be caught by a bellowing voice from across the hallway. My muscles tense up. I turn and see a 4'11 short man with thin black hair. Wearing gold rim glasses larger than his eyes, black gloves, and a business suit that was fitted and tailored to his size. He had brag at least three times about the cost of it. </p><p> </p><p>The little man storms up to me with both hands balled up into fists of anger at his sides. Scrunching a face that says, 'I demand answers.'</p><p> </p><p>"Mr. Winslow," I put on my best fake smile. A smile I had perfected over the years since working for <em> Trendy Times</em>. "I was just about to come see you, sir."</p><p> </p><p>Winslow stands on his toes when he's close enough to me, I could smell cigarette smoke on his breath. He scowls up at me and pokes my chest, hard, with one of his gloved little fingers. "Save it, Stein. You're late, and we got a big problem. I want to speak to you in my office. Right now."</p><p> </p><p>We walk to his office in uncomfortable silence. Winslow mutters something low under his breath that is unclear. I look the other way, and at everyone we pass just to avoid accidental eye contact with him. Everyone who stares back had the unspoken look of pity for me. Miss Francis as well. She glances my way before we enter his office, and her face falls. The look says it all. '<em> Good luck. Don't get fired.' </em></p><p> </p><p>"Elizabeth, I'm unavailable until noon. Nobody is to disturb me." </p><p> </p><p>Miss Francis looks away and makes herself seem busy. "Yes, sir. Understand, sir." </p><p> </p><p>We step inside his office, and Winslow slams the door. I wince. </p><p> </p><p>"Sit down," He orders. I do as he says and sit...in one of those creaky plastic chairs you see in highschools, while he leans back in his plush swivel and gets comfortable. </p><p> </p><p>Mr. Winslow glares intently at me for the first few seconds, like he's expecting me to start off this discussion with...an apology? I guess? I'm frozen, not sure of what to say, or think what this meeting is about. Mr. Winslow is angry, that's all I know for sure. It's hard to look at him as sweat is forming on my forehead. Finally, he says, "You look like hell, Stein. Drinking again?" </p><p> </p><p>"Uh, um. No, sir. It's...I didn't sleep well last night, sir." </p><p> </p><p>"Well, I need you to wake up and be ready to work, because we are down five people." </p><p> </p><p>"Five!?" </p><p> </p><p>Winslow makes an unpleasant disgust noise from the back of his throat. "Long, Gardner, Ortiz, and Stearns never showed up to work yesterday nor clocked in today. And Sutton had the audacity to call off without an excuse. I swear The Manhattan Killer better have killed their asses, or I will the next time I see any of them!"</p><p> </p><p>A knot slowly forms in the pit of my stomach.</p><p> </p><p>Ok, so four missing people and one sick person. Add the four to the New York missing persons list and that makes over thirty people in the last month. How can four people disappear at once? Can it really be the Manhattan Killer? Concern, I ask, "Did you try calling them?" </p><p> </p><p>"Several times. Not a single one of those bastards answered." </p><p> </p><p> "That's troubling, sir. I hope they are alright." </p><p> </p><p>He waves their safety off like its a bother to him. "Bah! To hell with them. If they don't want to work for the greatest magazine publisher Manhattan has to offer then I won't waste any of my time and money on them anymore. Consider all of them are fired! Sadly, this means we're short-handed, so I'm gonna need you to finish up the illustration sooner than the original due date. How's it coming?" </p><p> </p><p>"Well, I'm uh, still working on the structural parts."</p><p> </p><p>Winslow squints his eyes. "What do you mean?" </p><p> </p><p>"...I'm still sketching it out, sir."  </p><p> </p><p>He pauses, sucks in some air then releases a deep bitter breath. "Get it finished by 2:00 pm, October 12th."</p><p> </p><p>"Yes, sir." </p><p> </p><p>"Not a minute late. No excuses." </p><p> </p><p>"Yes, sir."</p><p> </p><p>Mr. Winslow rises from his seat and leans in close. "And don't think for a second that because were short-handed means you're safe from losing your job, Stein. If you don't have the cover ready by that date and time, consider yourself terminated. Got it?" </p><p> </p><p>I bite my tongue. As much as I really want to say something, I refrain from chiding my boss, who had other, more pressing things to worry about than his own missing employees. </p><p> </p><p>"Yes, sir." </p><p> </p><p>-------------------------</p><p> </p><p>It was a risky move, but I managed to talk Mr. Winslow into letting me leave the office a few hours early. I told him I didn't feel well, which wasn't a lie. I feel like crap from the lack of sleep. Additionally, I didn't feel up to working after being told my coworkers were possibly dead. Who would?</p><p> </p><p>Mr. Winslow said no at first and had the nerve to accuse me of lying, thinking I'm going to go straight to the bar once I leave work. Asshole. Ever since my drinking problem was exposed, he never lets me forget it. He hasn't fired me either for it, so I must be doing something right.</p><p> </p><p>Luckily, I knew about Mr. Winslow's germaphobia and how to use it against him. I coughed, violently, and made it loud and realistic in between arguing with him to help win my case. It worked, and he let me go at three o'clock, but not without a second lecture about what could happen to my job. </p><p> </p><p>When I leave, I take the extra steps to go through the company's eastern side door that leads to a recently installed pathway with new metal canopies. One of our senior designers is working on an aquatic theme mural on that side of the building for a pretty hefty paycheck. I'm interested in seeing how his progress is doing before heading home. </p><p> </p><p>What I instead see; is vandalized art. </p><p>Someone has painted over the entire scene. Completely ruined it. The fish, the dolphins, and the beautiful mermaid, the centerpiece of the whole picture, destroyed by this horrible act. Whoever did it, didn't leave a street tag or even tried to hide the crime. They left a disturbing message visibly seen and written out in black paint.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> ILLISIONS ARE REAL </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'what the hell?' </em>
</p><p> </p><p>I look over at two janitors standing around under the canopy with cigarettes between their teeth. "Any ideas who could have done this?" </p><p> </p><p>One janitor gives me a look. "What you on about, bud?" </p><p> </p><p>"I'm talking about the mural," I say.</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah, what about it?" </p><p> </p><p>I gesture to the painted message. "You don't see what's wrong with it? It's ruined."</p><p> </p><p>The other janitor rolls his eyes and nudges his friend. "Oooh, I get it. This guy is being a critic." </p><p> </p><p>I blink. <em>Critic??? </em></p><p> </p><p>"Yeah, looks like a case of jealousy to me." They laugh. </p><p> </p><p>I don't. Stern, I tell them, "Vandalizatism is a serious thing. The artist was working very hard on this piece, and now it's ruined." </p><p> </p><p>The janitors ignore me. They drop and burn out their cigarettes, turn to start leaving. </p><p> </p><p>"Are you guys going to report this serious crime?" I shout. </p><p> </p><p>One of the janitors' rolls his eyes, looks my way as I'm pointing at the problem and shakes his head. "Look, we ain't artist, pal. If you got a problem with the mural, then take it to the big guys upstairs." </p><p> </p><p>"I don't have a problem with the mural!" I tried to keep my cool. I really did. I know these guys are messing with me, and I'm not in the mood for it. "I have a problem with vandalism. Can't you see somebody painted over it." </p><p> </p><p>They stop and look at each other. Then look at me.</p><p> </p><p>"You don't see all the black paint? And the message the vandals left?"</p><p> </p><p>"What message?" </p><p> </p><p>I shut my mouth. '<em>They don't see it.'  </em>I look up at the message again.</p><p> </p><p>The janitor shrugs. "I don't know man. We come here every day and it looks fine to us." </p><p> </p><p>The other nods along with what his friend says. "Yeah, we don't know what you're talking about. Get some sleep or somethin'." They head back inside the building, leaving me there looking dumb and confused at the wall. </p><p> </p><p>I rub my eyes, thinking: <em>I'm tired and this isn't real</em>, then look again. The message is still there. Big and clear. And for reasons I don't understand, only I can see it. I reach out and touch the black paint. It's dry, however, I don't really know if I'm touching it or the mural.</p><p> </p><p>I have mentioned briefly before that I do sometimes see these sorts of things, the mysterious wall messages. Normally I'm pretty drunk when I see them, and the messages are usually glowing illuminant gold. Sometimes there are quick, moving shadows on the wall when I see them, although they disappear before I can figure out what they are. </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> ILLUSIONS ARE REAL </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>This is the first I'm seeing one of these messages in broad daylight and this big of a sign. I know I'm not drunk. I'm tired, but my eyesight isn't wrong. There is no doubt about what I'm seeing right now. And for it to show up at my workplace, of all places? It can't be a coincidence. Right?</p><p> </p><p>A gut feeling is telling me this is a warning sign. </p><p> </p><p>-----------------------------------</p><p> </p><p><strong> -Bendy- </strong> </p><p> </p><p>My leader is a strange one. She knows only those inkfected can see me and knows the inkfected don't like to expose their true nature in daylight, yet she wants to meet up in a dark, disgusting, rat-infested underground train station to speak about our missions. The station she picked looks dark enough for inkfected to hang out. And I'm pretty positive most crimes happen down here. </p><p> </p><p>While I'm sitting on a bench waiting for her to show up, a light flickers directly over my head. Sadly, it's the only light working in a 12 feet radius. I can't see anything for half a second every time it goes out. I hate it. It's creepy, and my wild imagination is picturing things I don't want to be down here with me. Monsters and inkfected. I'm hugging myself right now, shaking somewhat, while my eyes shift left and right, left and right. In my left hand, I'm gripping one of those folding blade things, a pocketknife I think, that humans seem to carry. Allison said it could protect me until I get my host. I don't think a tiny little blade can kill an inkfected. Actually, I'm a hundred percent sure it can't, but I'm willing to use anything until I get Henry. Anything could pop out at any second and attack me.</p><p> </p><p>Why on earth does she want to meet down here?</p><p> </p><p>"Oh good, you made it." </p><p> </p><p>The fear in my heart nearly leaps out of my chest and makes its way up my lungs. It comes out as a scream. I spring from my seat, whirl around swinging the pocketknife out, to see...my leader. Ms. Allison Pendle.</p><p> </p><p>She's wearing a long brown coat over her white blouse and pencil skirt. I can see her blond pin-up hair underneath a wide brim trilby. Which means Alice isn't with her. She came here alone. Insane of her to come here without her toon, but she is the leader who claims to 'know best'. </p><p> </p><p>Allison looks surprised at first, then she grins. And then tries to hold back a giggle. "I'm sorry, did I frighten you?" </p><p> </p><p>My poor little heart is still beating when I exclaim, "Yes. Did you have to sneak up on my like that?"</p><p> </p><p>Her giggles turn into full-on laughter. "I never thought you'd be so easy to scare." </p><p> </p><p>"Clearly, you haven't seen my cartoons then." </p><p> </p><p>She shakes her head while letting out the last bits of her laughter. "No, I was to busy voice acting your lady." </p><p> </p><p>"She's not my-...whatever cut to the end, Allison. What did you want to talk about?" </p><p> </p><p>"The inkfected count, Bendy," She says, all serious now. "It's getting worse. We ran into some new ones last night." </p><p> </p><p>Oh...</p><p> </p><p>"Is Alice ok? What about Boris?" I ask. </p><p> </p><p>"Alice is fine. Everyone is fine, but we really need help from a third hunter," She pauses.</p><p> </p><p>I make a face, though I'm not sure of what emotion. A couple of things are racing through my mind: New York City, my friends, Henry. Everything I want to keep safe. Overall, I understand what she's trying to tell me because we've had this conversation before. </p><p> </p><p>I tell her, "I'm still working on getting Henry. Give me a little more time." </p><p> </p><p>Allison heaves a sigh. "I understand you want to protect him, but we don't have much time."</p><p> </p><p>"Just a little more. Please, Allison?" </p><p> </p><p>"Bendy," She says, sounding a little peeved with me. "Even if you do get him to drink the ink and he finally sees you, what makes you think Henry will agree to let you use his soul?" </p><p> </p><p>"I...we'll talk about that part when we get to it."</p><p> </p><p>"Listen, if you can't get him to be your host soon, then I suggest you pick-" </p><p> </p><p>"No!" I snap. I didn't want to hear it. Not again. "It can't be anyone else. It has to be Henry no matter what." </p><p> </p><p>Allison goes quiet to let me speak. </p><p> </p><p>Good. She has to understand, I picked Henry for a reason. She may not care about him, but I do! And so does Alice and Boris. To protect my creator, he has to become my host.  </p><p> </p><p>"Tonight," I tell Allison. "He will drink the ink. Henry will finally see what's been lurking behind New York City's curtains."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. After breaking into the apartment lock again,</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yeesh, this took longer than I had liked.</p><p>I want to note that I went back to Chapters 1 and 2 and changed a few words, added a line or two or deleted a line or two. Nothing major though. I will probably do the same for 3 and 4 because I'm never satisfied with my own writing lol.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I noticed right away that Henry isn't home. He shouldn't be, not at four-thirty pm on a weekday. He should still be at work.</p><p> </p><p>I step inside the quiet apartment and make sure to close the door this time and lock it. With him gone, I've got some time to work on our new plan. Obviously, returning the vial to him wasn't working. And although I did consider forcing the ink down his throat just to get it over with, Allison's doubts of him joining us has raised some concerns. </p><p> </p><p>So now I'm a little hesitant. I hate the fact that her uncertainty is enough to make me lose confidence in Henry. I want to believe that once I explain the rules of our new connection, he will agree to help us. I want to show him what's actually causing the disappearances and how we can stop them if we work together. The creator and his creation, side by side. A dream team in my book and one that I've been looking forward to for a while.</p><p> </p><p>But I can't force Henry to be my host, only the human soul has the power to either accept or deny the toon. If he doesn't trust me, I won't be able to protect him.</p><p> </p><p>That's the keyword in this dark ritual: Trust. </p><p> </p><p>To gain Henry's trust, I shouldn't start off my grand introduction by forcing him to drink ink that he's been avoiding. It's a bit more subtle to trick him.</p><p> </p><p>I go into the kitchen and open the refrigerator. In the back of the icebox on the bottom shelf, I reach and grab the green glass bottle with the fancy crown and <em>Pallenstein's Ale </em>sticker. </p><p> </p><p>Now shocking as it may seem, I don't know what this stuff tastes like. I've seen Charley, Barley and Edgar drink ale. I've seen villains in Ink World's toughest bar down glasses in one gulp after having a round of hardy laughter together. But I, Bendy the demon, the small happy-go-lucky, and so-called trouble maker of the Ink World has never touched an ale. Or any alcohol in my life. Bit strange now that I think about it more. A lot of toons had at least one episode or two showing them drinking some kind of alcoholic beverage. Good boy Felix the Cat had one, believe it or not. I think Popeye had one. And you darn know it Mickey Mouses's pal Donald Duck had an episode or two involving booze. </p><p> </p><p>But I didn't. </p><p> </p><p>Now I say it's strange because despite having never committed what's considered a 'bad guy move' in most eyes in the Ink World, I still get treated worse than a villain. As if I'm just a big, terrible nuisance to everybody. They don't realize that I'm not so much a trouble-maker as I am an explorer. Trouble just has a bad habit of following me where ever I go, but no one ever listens to my side of the story. It's the horns. It's always the horns. And my smile. All it takes is one glance at me and everybody immediately...</p><p> </p><p>I'm sorry, I shouldn't talk about this right now. This part of the story is about Henry. Not me.</p><p> </p><p>Where was I again? </p><p> </p><p>Right, the plan.</p><p> </p><p>Allison suggested I look for this particular <em>Pallenstein's Ale </em>drink. She pledges Henry will want this over water or anything else in the icebox. Being a human herself, she does know more about human wants and needs more than I do so I have to listen to her. Allison even helped me hatched up this new plan after another one of our arguments. Her same old "you are wasting time," spew and my same "Henry is important," speech. Blah, blah blah, the fight ain't anything new and I won as always. </p><p> </p><p>I guess you can call our new plan, poisoning him. Though I don't like to deem it that way. The word, poison, utters bad things...because well, it is a bad thing. It hurts people, and in most incidents, kills them. In this case, the ink should not kill Henry, but it will change him. A lot. Henry may not even recognize himself. There's also the high chance he will turn into one of...them if things don't go the way as we plan. We could lose Henry in a very bad way. Just thinking about that makes my blood run cold. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'I really hope you'll forgive me for this.'</em>
</p><p> </p><p>With the green bottle in one hand, I dig through my vest pockets for the vial and my pocket knife. I flick the blade out and carefully poke a tiny hole in the cap, small enough that it won't be noticeable. And just wide enough to pour the ink in and give it a shake. </p><p> </p><p>When it's nice and mixed in, I watch the liquid move around inside the bottle for a moment to regard how well the green tint disguises the ink. There, the deed is done. Henry won't even notice. Satisfied, I return the bottle in its proper spot in the back part of the bottom shelf. And not a moment too soon. </p><p> </p><p>I close the refrigerator door just as the front door lock clicks. Eyes wide, I whirl around and see the knob turning. '<em>Hide, hide, hide!'  </em>My mind screamed. I don't know why, but I darted out of the kitchen and dove into the living room like a soldier diving behind a barrier. Only my barrier is the couch, and I missed it by a long shot. </p><p> </p><p>You see, Henry's apartment is a bit small, every space just sort of blends in together as one. You can see and walk into his living room area from the kitchen with six easy steps. But I didn't walk, I panicked and tried to do a running dive instead. My short legs didn't have the spring to propel me far enough into the next room. The upper half of me made it and face-planted into the living room's beige wooly carpet. However, my legs were still touching the tile floor.</p><p> </p><p><em> 'Hey, doofus,'  </em> I imagine Allison Pendle would be saying to me right now, as my I'm army crawling across the carpet. ' <em> He can't see you, remember? Why are you hiding?'</em></p><p> </p><p>I don't know, Allison. Maybe it's because I know what I just did is wrong? It's a reflex, I hide when I don't want to get in trouble for my shameful deeds, so I did it without thinking. Now don't believe I'm a bad toon for doing this because I'm not. I don't go around poisoning people as a hobby, this is a one-time thing, and I don't have plans to do it again. Plus Henry caught me off guard by being home waaaaay earlier than usual. And I don't hear him move past the door frame. Why isn't he coming in?</p><p> </p><p>I peek over the furniture. Henry's taking his time getting into his apartment with slow, cautious steps. His eyes narrow with suspicion. He can sense I'm here. I know he can. Maybe he doesn't know it's me, but he knows there's something here. He's smart like that, trusting his gut feelings. </p><p> </p><p>Henry sets his bag down and closes the front door. He locks it without looking away from his apartment. "Hello?"</p><p> </p><p>He grabs the baseball bat sitting by the door. I duck behind the couch. It's pointless to hide, I know. I'm just really anxious, ok? </p><p> </p><p>Henry spends the next few minutes going through all of his rooms. Once again, checking every nook and cranny for his intruder. I can hear the doors rattle on the hinges every time he slams one and immediately opens another door after. He's so determined to find me, it's almost scary to see him act like this. </p><p> </p><p>"If you're here, show yourself," Finally, Henry comes into the living room, his footsteps nearing. "I'm through playing your games. Either come out now, or I'm calling the police,"</p><p> </p><p>I move from the back of the couch to the arm and again peeked over the furniture. Henry's looking around. The bat rests on his shoulder. After a minute of silence, he lets out a heavy breath, collapses and falls back into the couch cushions looking defeated. "This is crazy. I should have listened to Norman and gone to the police in the first place," He rubs his face with his hands. I watch him for a moment, trying to figure out what's wrong with his eyes when did they turn a shade of pink and why? Then it hit me. Lack of sleep. That's right, human eyes change color when they're really, really tired. I gasp. </p><p> </p><p>"Oh goodness, you haven't slept, have you, Henry? How could you, when you know something is off,"Guilt welled up inside of me, recognizing this is partly my fault. I sink to the floor. </p><p> </p><p>As I said, I'm not a bad toon. I feel awful for what I'm doing to him, or I should say what <em>we </em>are doing to him. I'm not in this boat alone, Allison gets some blame for this too.</p><p> </p><p>"You've checked everywhere, Henry. Nobody is here. They didn't come back," My creator tells himself. "You're tired, and that's making you paranoid," He laughs, but not really. More of an audible chuckle like he's trying to pretend nothing is wrong. "Maybe you need to see a doctor,"</p><p> </p><p>Hearing him like this almost makes me want to back out of the plan; it's depressing to listen to. But I can't do that. I already backed out once when I let Henry leave the studio. Allison would have a fit and put her foot down on the whole mission if I did it again. </p><p> </p><p>Henry continues on with his one-man conversation by saying, "It's making you see things. Weird things. Illusions are real. What the hell does that even mean?" </p><p> </p><p><em> 'Illusions are real?' </em>I perk up, sitting up from the floor. Henry is lying face-up on the couch, closing his eyes. A few seconds later, I can hear him snoring softly. </p><p> </p><p>"Illusions are real," I say aloud, following Henry's new trend of talking to oneself. "Now where on earth have you heard that before, Bendy?" </p><p> </p><hr/><p>At some point, I had fallen asleep behind the couch. By accident, of course. I didn't realize how long it's been since I last had a good nap myself. Running around in a big city can make a toon tired, you know? Before I was tasked with recruiting my creator, I was the team's honorary monster distractor thanks to my quick reflexes and...because I'm the only one without a host. You can imagine how exhausting that job was, especially because I didn't get many breaks in between running and hiding. </p><p> </p><p>Anyway.</p><p> </p><p>A loud noise from the kitchen is what woke me up in the dim light of the apartment. I was still half asleep when I heard it, so I can't describe it other than it sounded unpleasant. I rub the sleep from my eyes and blink a few times. From what I can tell, most of the day had ended, and the evening was just rolling in. Yawning, I get up and go look into the kitchen to see what caused the noise.</p><p> </p><p>Its Henry.</p><p> </p><p>He's on his knees, coughing and clutching his chest with a face of agony. Sweat is pouring out of his forehead like he's on the verge of a heart attack.</p><p> </p><p>"Henry!" I rush towards him without thinking of what I could possibly do to help him. Suddenly, Henry snaps his head up. The look on his face stops me in my tracks. He's staring directly at me. Wide eyes and mouth agape. His irises were dark. Almost black. I stare back at him for a moment, then remember what this meant. </p><p> </p><p>"Henry?" My heart starts to pound. Of fear or joy, I'm not sure. It feels like a mix of both. "Can you see me?"</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't respond. He just stares at me, face full of sweat and breathing heavily. He doesn't need to say anything, because I got my answer when I look up at the countertop and see the half-empty green ale bottle lying on its side. I couldn't believe it. The plan had worked. </p><p> </p><p>Henry finally drank the ink. </p><p> </p><p>He can finally see me!</p><p> </p><p>"You did it," I look back at him and beam. "Henry, you did it!"</p><p> </p><p>"What the fuck?" He says. Words I never thought I'd be so happy to hear out of him.</p><p> </p><p>I almost jumped in and hugged him out of the pure joy of finally getting to this point, but restrained myself from doing so. It would have freaked him out. He's in shock, and that's ok because now we can finally move on to phase two of the 'Henry recruitment mission': Introductions.</p><p> </p><p>"Normally, I would say I'm glad to see you, but in this case, I'm really glad you can see me." </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I hope everyone is doing ok in these weird times. It's scary, but we'll get through it!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I am going to try and post weekly, but I am currently in school so no promises there.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>